wendy m. thompson

CATCH THE SPIRIT

You touch me in all the places they say we 

cannot name in church:

the pulpit,

between the thighs,

the red shroud that hides the baptismal pool,

the minister’s plush green velvet chair.

You show me the verse from the Song of Songs: 

two breasts like grapes, clustered and hanging from 

the vine, 

sweet, and my eyes widen.

Hands slip under and grasp at bare skin, flowers cast 

down only yesterday, the small fruit on your tongue.

Which verse was it I swallowed first when 

you pressed it inside me--

a boy who stole out the offering plate and spent 

someone else’s tithe in a dice game?

You tell me you’ve seen flowers the same color as 

the thing blooming over my lips and teeth.

You ain’t a little girl no more, you say.

You got your eyes wide open now.

Wet sin up and down my dress and in 

between my legs.

You put a fist where you said was skin.

Made sure to mark me twice.

Tore out the page you liked.

Left the book for someone else to find,

parts missing.

But I was ready and waiting to be opened.

Like the kingdom come Bible held tight in my 

granny’s hand, knuckles taut around the spine,

a veil to hide the fact that some boy came ‘round 

and did the same thing to her after Sunday school, 

some fifty years ago.

We didn’t know anything other than white Jesus then,

but I swear he was watching us the whole time;

behind the pews,

bent over like we was praying.

A white man they said was our father, all 

brown curls,

blue eyes,

fake mouth.

WENDY M. THOMPSON IS AN ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF AFRICAN AMERICAN STUDIES AT SAN JOSÉ STATE UNIVERSITY. HER CREATIVE WORK HAS APPEARED IN GULF STREAM MAGAZINE, PALAVER, THE SANTA FE WRITER’S PROJECT, RAPPAHANNOCK REVIEW, JET FUEL REVIEW, AND WACCAMAW JOURNAL. SHE IS THE COEDITOR OF SPARKED: GEORGE FLOYD, RACISM, AND THE PROGRESSIVE ILLUSION.